*”Sick Love”*
“You really think that free spirits gonna stay married long?” Lena tried to talk sense into me.
“Time will tell,” I said with a blissful grin, not yet realising those words would become the mottoand the curseof my entire life.
I remember that evening like it was yesterday. A stuffy banquet hall, the scent of expensive perfume, endless chatter about money, fake smiles. Standing there with a glass in hand, I was ready to boltuntil I heard a womans infectious laugh behind me. I turned like a puppet on strings.
And there she was. Katie. Gesturing wildly, telling some story to a group of men. Slender, in a simple dress, but with fire in her brown eyes that shattered my safe, predictable world in an instant.
“Whos that?” I asked Lena.
“My friend Katie,” she sighed. “Fair warningshes a walking disaster in a skirt. Exciting, but youll crash and burn.”
I barely heard the warning. I was hypnotised. For someone raised by professors who lectured over breakfast, Katie was life itself. Love at first sight? More like an incurable diagnosis.
We married six months later, against my parents pleas. “Shell break you, son,” Dad said, peering over his glasses. “That girl wasnt made for settling down.”
“Shes a poisonous vine,” Mum added. “Shell cling until she drains you dry.”
But all I saw was sunlight. My life had always run on a strict schedulewhat I needed was a hurricane.
The first months were madness. Katie once woke me at 3am: “James, look at the moon! Lets drive to the river!” And we did. Shed chat with rough sleepers outside our flat, and within minutes, theyd spill their life stories. She was chaos. And I? I breathed it in like a prisoner tasting freedom.
Then came the first crack.
The market crashed without warning. My businessmy lifes workcollapsed in months. I dragged myself home one night, hollow-eyed, the ground crumbling beneath me.
Katie met me at the door. No embrace. Just folded arms and a cold stare.
“Well, genius? Lost it all?” Her voice was razor-sharp.
I choked out, “Katie, Im trying”
“Youre bailing out a sinking ship,” she cut in. “I dont do poverty. I need stability. You cant give that anymore. Sorry.”
She packed her suitcases while I stood there, throat tight. “WaitpleaseIll fix this!” My voice cracked to a whisper.
She paused, tucked her burgundy passport into her bag, and finally looked at me. No love. No regret. Just icy irritation.
“James, stop grovelling. Its pathetic. Dont call me.”
The door slammed. The sound physically hurt. I crumpled to the floor and sobbed like a child. Without her, the world turned grey. Food lost its taste. Air felt thick.
Six months later, she came back.
Opened the doorand there she was. Thinner, tanned, smelling of someone elses cologne. My knees buckled. Katie strutted past me, dropping her heels. “That broker was unbearable. Even his car playlist was classical.”
Like shed just popped to the shops, not another mans bed.
Instead of throwing her out, I felt wild, dizzying joy. She chose me! “Im sorry I failed you,” I whispered.
She frozenot with guilt, but satisfaction. Shed been right. Always right.
There were more departures. First, a “guru” who took her hiking for “enlightenment.” I didnt leave the flat for weeks. Then a “real man”muscled, cocky. I saw them in Hyde Park once, his hand on her waist, her throwing her head back with that same laugh that once pierced my heart.
Each time, she returned. Each time, I opened the door.
After one reunion, Lena grabbed my shoulders. “James, wake up! Shes using you! She brags about you apologisingfor what?!”
“For being boring. For not holding her attention. Its my fault, Lena. Always mine.”
I wasnt a man. I was a doormat. A waiting room. And the worst part? I accepted it. Because life without her hurt more than anything she did.
One night, post-“stallion,” I broke. Watched her sleep, sprawled across my side of the bed, heartbreakingly beautiful. “Why?” I whispered. “Why always come back to me?”
She stirred, stretching, and hit me with that devastating smile. “Because youre my home, Jamie. My safe harbour. You always wait.”
No love in those words. Just convenience. That cut deeper than any affair. But when she curled into me, all my resolve dissolved.
I despised myselfbut couldnt let go.
Then, the final crack. Dad had a stroke.
Rushing to the hospital, his warnings echoed: “Shell break you, son.” Id thought he meant my career. He meant *me*.
Seeing hima shadow of the stern man whod taught me lifesomething snapped. I saw myself in his frail body: paralysed. His illness was physical. Mine? Love.
Mum squeezed my hand as I buried my face in her shoulder. “We always hoped youd wake up.”
That night, I packed Katies things. Not in ragejust hygiene. Taped a sign on the wardrobe: *”Waiting room closed.”*
The hardest part? Ignoring her texts: “Miss our coffee. He drinks some pretentious dust.” My fingers itched to reply *”Come home.”* But I remembered Dads face. Stayed silent.
She didnt understand. Messages turned angry, then mocking: “Jamie, on a silence diet? Withering without me?”
Then she showed up. “James, fetch my suitcase!”
“You dont get it,” I said softly. “This isnt your home anymore.”
Fear flickered in her eyesshed lost control. “Are you ill?”
“Yes. But Im healing. And you? Youre the sickness.”
Withdrawal was agony. But quiet evenings with Dad, Mums steady presence, andfinallyfighting for *myself* kept me standing.
Months later, Katie sent a postcard: *”No one waited like you.”*
I moved her things to storage. Not vengeance. Just space for my life.
At an art gallery months later, Lena teased, “Dont worry, your hurricane isnt here.”
But I wasnt scared. Just calm. Talking to a woman with thoughtful eyesno pretending, no desperate performance.
Walking her out, I realised: I wasnt afraid. Of saying the wrong thing. Of tomorrow.
Whatever came next? Itd be *my* life. No more waiting in empty rooms.
